Sushi, Sarcasm, and Life’s Wild Twists
From hibachi hijinks to unexpected encounters, a nostalgic dive into the chaos, charm, and characters that shaped my path.
Little did I know I was living through one of the most amazing times in history. The 90s—we were Generation X. Defined by incredible music, independent movies, safe sex, and a carefree, cynical attitude, it was a time when rebellion was stylish, and everything felt raw and real. I wanted to be an artist—a filmmaker, to be specific. But back then, there was no clear or easy path. Cameras were hard to come by, film school was expensive, and the idea of making movies felt more like a pipe dream than an achievable goal. So, I had to work.
All my friends worked at a hibachi and sushi joint called Something's Fishy in Santa Barbara.
It was a Japanese restaurant owned by a Korean—which should already tell you a lot. The #1 rule? The customer was never right. It was a madhouse in the best way possible. In the front of the house, you had a grumpy, older Japanese general manager who could switch personalities on a dime, a cocaine-fueled Mexican playboy manager who somehow kept it all together, and a wait staff that looked like the most eccentric “asian potluck” you could imagine: Japanese, Korean, Filipino, Chinese, plus myself and another white guy thrown in for good measure.
The sushi chefs were all Japanese, and they were a cast of characters unto themselves. At the helm was Tanaka, the head chef, and easily one of the strangest and most fascinating individuals I’d ever met. Tanaka had no filter. He would tell me the most bizarre, sexually charged stories about his experiments with fruits and vegetables. His favorite? Carving a small hole in a pumpkin, warming it in the microwave, and—well, you can fill in the rest. I’ll spare you the gory details, but let’s just say, you never invited him over for Thanksgiving.
The other two chefs were far less strange but made up for it with energy and charisma. They were fun, lively, and constantly cracking jokes. Looking back, that chaotic little restaurant was like a sitcom waiting to happen. It was absurd, dysfunctional, and somehow magical—a perfect microcosm of my early working life.
In the back of the house, you had the chefs who handled the menu meals and hibachi. The hibachi chefs and the kitchen crew? All Mexican. Beto, the head guy, was the spitting image of Slowpoke Rodriguez from the old Looney Tunes cartoons—slow, deliberate, and absolutely in control of the chaos around him. I wish I could remember everyone’s name, but their faces and the stories we shared are burned into my memory. It was a crew held together by a shared love of food, a lot of laughter, and the occasional scathing insult.
I got the job thanks to my good friend TO, or as we called him, Gon. He and HG both worked there, and together, we sort of slowly took the place over. Like I said, the customer was never right. If someone dared to complain, Sato, the manager, would put on an Oscar-worthy performance—all concerned smiles and nods—but as soon as the customer walked away, he’d mutter under his breath, “They are idiot. Just don’t do again.” And that was it. The “customer service” lesson of the day.
It was chaos, it was wild, and it was one of the most unforgettable jobs I ever had.
We were unruly, and if the customer was a dick—which, let’s be real, happened a lot in a mid-tier Santa Barbara sushi joint—we didn’t take too kindly to them. I’ve always had a bit of a sarcastic, witty edge to me. Some people loved it; others, not so much. Now, take a look at the above image: a guy eating what looks like an innocent roll, right? Wrong. That’s double-wrapped with an ungodly amount of rice. Looks like a spider roll with soft shell crab—and it’s been super-sized.
We had this all-you-can-eat menu, and inevitably, some dude would roll in boasting about how much he could put away. If they were obnoxious enough, we had a little trick: double up on everything except the good stuff. That’s right, enjoy your mountain of rice, hero.
I worked at Something's Fishy for three years. Those years were incredible—a gold mine of memories and stories. My first year, I was a waiter, slinging sake and Sapporo. By the second year, I graduated to sushi chef, which opened up a whole new chapter of madness. But while I was still waiting tables, I met someone who would change the trajectory of my life—a story I’ll get to later.
Thursday through Saturday nights were absolute fire—booked out, slammed, shoulder-to-shoulder chaos. Most people either came in already buzzed or were just getting the party started. The energy was electric. The hibachi chefs were pushing carts and starting fires; waiters were scrambling to fill orders; sushi chefs were yelling table numbers while rolls were being plated at light speed.
By about 9 p.m., the staff was done pretending to be sober. As waiters, we had full access to the beer, sake, and wine. I’d pour myself a pint of Sapporo to make the “idiots” more tolerable. I was a bit nonchalant about the whole “customer service” thing. You’d get your food, your drinks, and your check when they were ready, and if you were a decent human being, I’d make sure you had a good time. But if you were a dick or a nightmare customer, well—you got the special miso soup.
Here’s the secret: during the dinner rush, miso soup always splashed on the stainless steel counter as we scooped it into bowls. There was a rag on standby to keep the area clean. If you were rude enough to earn it, a little squeeze from that rag went right into your soup—the special ingredient to remind you to be kind to your server.
Working there taught me one invaluable life lesson: always be nice to the staff.
By the end of these nights, we’d head out for drinks at a couple of our favorite spots. It was either The Wildcat Lounge(trust me, more on that later) or Edomasa, another Japanese restaurant. We were a real-life Motley Crue: red-faced, drunk Japanese sushi chefs; GH, our slightly goofy but angry-in-the-best-way Chinese friend; me, a little drunk and weird—but in a charming way, of course—and whoever else decided to tag along. Usually, it was a girlfriend, or sometimes JH would join the mix.
Picture it: a table overflowing with empty beer bottles, clinking sake cups, and half-eaten plates of late-night sushi. The laughter loud, the stories even louder. We were young, reckless, and alive in a way that only happens when you’re surrounded by friends who feel like family—all of us just trying to carve out our little corner of the world.
It was a slammed summer Saturday night. The place was bursting at the seams, festive, and chaotic in the best way. Every summer, Santa Barbara turns into an absolute circus during Fiesta, a week-long party that’s basically SoCal’s version of Mardi Gras. Even Michael Jordan got involved. Every year, he’d reserve an entire bar for a VIP party—something about a basketball camp he hosted that always lined up with the festival. It was a mess. A glorious, sun-soaked mess of people, drinks, and revelry.
That night, the hibachi tables were packed tight. Normally, we’d squeeze nine people to a table. If there were smaller groups, we’d cram strangers together, and by the end of dinner, they’d be best men at each other’s weddings. But this night was different—a party of four had reserved an entire table. I wasn’t thrilled. Fewer people meant fewer tips, and I wasn’t in the mood to schmooze.
I walked into the situation with my usual armor of sarcasm and wit. The women were gorgeous, which automatically threw me off my game. The two men? Big, average-looking English blokes who didn’t seem particularly special. I could tell this was going to be a long night.
The dynamic was tense at first. My sarcasm and nonchalance caught them off guard, especially the feisty Australian woman-KL. She was quick with comebacks, and we got into a witty, verbal sparring match that made me feel like I was treading water. Her French friend was more demure, as the kids say, and stayed out of the fray. Every time I came back to the table, KL had something to say, some sharp little jab. I fired right back with my best silver-tongued quips, walked away holding my head high, and prayed I wasn’t blushing too hard.
They ordered dinner—hibachi, sushi, and rounds of drinks. And drinks. And more drinks. They bought drinks for me and the sushi chefs, and as the alcohol settled in, so did my confidence. I felt spunky, sharp, and a little invincible.
The place was packed to the rafters with a 60-minute wait, but this table of four didn’t care. They lingered, laughed, and soaked in the night while I mentally tallied the tips I was losing with every passing minute. After about two hours, they finally paid up and headed out. But before KL left, she leaned in, smiled, and told me where she and her friends were going after we closed the restaurant.
“You should stop by,” she said casually, like it was no big deal.
Normally, I would’ve blown it off. I would’ve stayed in my comfort zone, gone drinking with my friends, and kept myself safely cocooned in the belief that I wasn’t worthy of someone like her—gorgeous, smart, and intimidatingly confident. But something in me shifted that night. I made a decision.
I was going to meet KL—the second woman who would change the trajectory of my life.
We will be dedicating future blogs to the sushi chef experience at Something's Fishy, our hangout at The Wildcat, and the story of KL.
I want to thank you for your patience and understanding. Recently, life has been a bit dark and heavy, and while I try my best to open up my laptop and write, sometimes I just can’t do it. I feel like I’m letting you—and myself—down when that happens.
But here we are. I’m a day late and a few thousand dollars short, but I’m still here. I’m making an effort to keep these stories coming to your inbox, to give you a little escape from doom scrolling, and hopefully, a reason to smile.
Love & Light
MM